


hand me your hand, let me look in your eyes

by librarby



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, Gender-neutral Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Other, im in love w jon and i think everyone else should be too, reader is an archival assistant!, set during a nebulous s3, yes this is self indulgent as all hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26482663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarby/pseuds/librarby
Summary: You’re less surprised than you probably should be when Jon reaches out.A beat. A spider scurries near your foot but you don’t see it. You take his hand.The Archivist does not smile, but he does close his eyes.[title from autoclave by the mountain goats]
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 48





	hand me your hand, let me look in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to the trans archive discord for both bullying me for my crush on jon as well as assuring me i am not cringe. if you are reading this im hitting you with a broom (but in a nice way)

By now, you’re somewhat used to the inevitable stares that you get walking through the lobby of the Magnus Institute. You pass by the hallways that go to Research and Artefact Storage respectively and instead make your way to the door tucked in the back. Ignoring the sound of someone whispering behind you, you open it, walking down the stairs. 

The door swings firmly shut behind you.

The Archives are always a bit dim, though you can see the light under Jon’s office door as you approach it. You pause for a moment outside, slowly unzipping your jacket as if to pretend that that’s the real reason you’ve stopped. 

Jon’s voice is a little high-pitched but focused, and you can hear the whirring of a tape recorder–all telltale signs that he’s recording a statement. 

You were transferred from Artefact Storage a few weeks ago, after one of the Archival Assistants disappeared (Sarah? No, Sasha. You don’t quite recall ever meeting her. Or seeing her). Jon wasn’t even here at the time, as he was apparently busy running from a murder charge. 

(You never did get the whole story out of Martin on that.)

Your hand finds the doorknob of his office, but you pull back once you register what you’re doing and make your way to your desk before you can try again. You’re surprised to see Martin there, drumming his fingers on his arm and staring off in the distance. He jumps when you say his name, a small, embarrassed smile appearing on his face once he sees that it’s you. 

“There you are! I was wondering where you’d gone.” He says. You drape your jacket over the back of your chair. 

“I was out at lunch. Is something wrong?” You ask, eyes darting to Tim’s vacant desk. He’s almost never seated there anymore, typically down in the tunnels, but someone–probably Martin–still waters the plant in the little blue pot that sits in the corner. 

(There’s writing on the side, accompanied by a tiny scribble of a heart, but whenever you try to read it, all the letters blend together.)

Martin follows your line of sight, his eyes widening when he realizes what you’re asking. “Oh! Tim? No, no, he’s fine.” He blinks, gaze darting back to your face. “Well, I mean, you know how he is.” 

“Yeah.” He’s probably under your feet right now, reading something about Smirke in the tunnels. Something to do with this whole Unknowing thing Jon keeps talking about. 

“Um. If it’s not Tim, then what is it? A statement?” 

Martin shakes his head. “No, it’s, um. It’s Jon.” He almost whispers this when he says it, even though from here you can see that Jon’s door is still closed firmly. “I’m a bit worried about him, but I already went in there earlier, and I know he hates when I, um, _we_ interrupt when he’s recording and–”

You hold a hand out to stop him, giving him a smile that you hope is reassuring. If anything, he deserves that right now. “I’ll check up on him later, okay?”

His shoulders drop a little as he returns your smile. It’s nice to see that someone else around here can still do that. “Thank you.” 

“Of course.” You say, considering adding on the fact that you worry about him too but decide at the last second not to mention it, so you simply punctuate the sentence by dropping your bag back down onto your desk. 

Martin blinks, as though suddenly aware again that you two are technically at work. And should thus be working. “Sorry, I’ll let you get back to it.” 

“Bye, Martin.” You say, and he flashes you one last smile before he disappears around the corner to his own desk. 

You work for a while, flipping through a stack of statements someone left on your desk (you _really_ hope it was Jon). After a bit, you decide to see if Martin’s concern is legitimate.

The door to the Archivist’s office is still closed and the tape recorder is still whirring, but Jon’s voice is back into its’ normal register, indicating he’s making notes about the statement he just read (you do _not_ stand outside for a few seconds, just listening to his voice). 

When your hand finds the doorknob this time, you twist and push, bracing yourself for the inevitable snappy remark or at least an irritated sigh. 

Jon looks up as you enter. As usual, his gaze somehow feels like _more_ , like there’s a crowd looking at you and pinning you to the door instead of one man. 

Even from your position and with the dim lighting, you can pick out both the circular scars that dot his face and the shocks of grey running through his hair. 

If you think hard enough, you can conjure up an image of the Jonathan Sims that you remember from Research. Sometimes you’d see him when you’d visit Tim, hunched over in the corner working on god knows what. Occasionally Tim would attempt to rib on him, but it only seemed to irritate him. 

You saw less and less of both of them after they transferred to the Archives, but you joined Tim for lunch a few times and would sometimes catch a glimpse of the elusive Archivist, walking by with his arms full of statements or ducking into his office. 

(To say that Jon looks different now is irrefutable, but you wouldn’t say it’s _bad_.

Sometimes different is good.) 

“Sorry, are you recording?” You ask, nodding to the paper he’s holding and the tape recorder, which is still whirring away. 

“I…” Jon stammers as he stares blankly at you, the color slowly draining from his face. His voice is weak and you can see the slight tremor in his hands as he places one on the desk for support. “I’m sorry, what?”

Hm, okay. Now you see what Martin was talking about.

“Are you okay?” You ask, closing the door carefully behind you. 

Jon doesn’t answer for a few moments and you almost ask again, but he manages to force a sentence out. “I think...I think I need to lay down.” 

He stands and doesn’t even make it one step before he’s pitching forward. You manage to rush to him in time to catch him before his head hits the sharp edge of the desk. Cursing under your breath (mostly at him, somewhat at yourself), you manage to prop him back up in his chair. 

(You pointedly do not think about how light his body is, how easily you can push and pull it, how the edges of his being seem sharper now, more angular than you remember. 

You do not think about all the points of contact you had shared, which now burn against your skin.)

Jon’s eyes flutter for a moment before opening with several tired blinks. He squints at you. 

“Wh-Why am I sitting?” He asks, one hand scrambling to take hold of the chair’s armrest. 

“You fainted!” You exclaim, looking him up and down to figure out what the _hell_ caused that. 

All you get in response is a little huffed breath and then he’s trying to stand up again. 

Barely thinking, you press a firm hand to his chest and push him back into his chair. He goes easily, though he stares up at you with a dumbfounded, almost incredulous look on his face. 

“Stay there.” You order before he can speak up and try to defend himself god knows how. “I’m getting you water.” 

“B–” Jon barely lasts a syllable before the weight of your gaze causes him to shrink back. You sigh, softening your expression just a little and he visibly relaxes as well. 

“I just don’t want you to fall again. I’ll be right back, okay?” You say, trying your best to soften the edges of your voice. 

Where you’re expecting resistance, you are instead met with a quiet compliance as Jon simply nods, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. You watch him for a second longer (Jonathan Sims is not known for quiet compliance) before you decide to trust his word and head out into the hallway. 

The canteen is just upstairs, so you once again get to experience the joy that is emerging from the Archives and feeling the collective stares of the rest of the Institute’s employees. You again ignore them, making your way to the canteen. 

You’re just about to turn the corner to enter when you nearly run into someone with a very familiar face–your old coworker Francis. He’s still in Research, judging by the stack of folders sticking out of his bag. 

“Y/N!” He says, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “I see Jon let you out of the basement.” 

“Good to see you too.” You say, but you can feel a smile forming on your face without your permission. “And, for the record, he did not _let_ me out. He’s…”

You glance around for a moment, seeing no one except the security camera positioned at the end of the hall. Still, you speak a little quieter when you continue. “He passed out a few minutes ago. I think he’s okay now, but I just wanted to get him some water.” 

“Give me, hm...give me two minutes.” Francis tells you, and then disappears back around the corner. 

He comes back in one minute and forty-two seconds, pulling two water bottles out of his bag. You do not ask where they came from, you just take them and give a cautionary glance over Francis’ shoulder for any Institute security. 

“Thank you.” You take a step back, eyes going to your watch. “I’m sorry, I really do have to go. He’s...you know.” 

This earns you a laugh. “I don’t, but okay. Good luck with your Sleeping Beauty.” 

“Shut up!” You call over your shoulder, making a mental note to drag him down to the Archives on lunch break next week.

Jon is thankfully still in his chair when you open the door to his office, though now his head has dropped down to his desk. His eyes snap open when you enter, but he sighs and closes them again when he sees that it’s you. 

As much as it’s a relief to see him doing something at least sleeping-adjacent, you’ve heard him complain about the pain in his back after passing out at his desk enough times that you figure you should probably get him into the spare room.

“Do you think you can stand?” You ask, placing your hand on the desk next to his arm. 

Jon’s inhale is shaky, but he manages to lift his head up. “I think so. You might...I may need some assistance.”

Working together, you get Jon supported against your side, with one arm around his shoulder and his arm looped around your waist. Your heart stutters when he stumbles once in the hallway (then stutters again when you feel his hand clutching at your shirt as he leans into you, attempting to right himself). 

It takes you a few minutes to get down to the spare room with the cot, but you eventually manage to sit him down and press one of the water bottles into his hands. He thanks you quietly between sips, his hand tremors now noticeably less severe. 

You slip back out into the hallway. There’s a dusty folding chair sitting alone across from the door, which you manage to drag back into the room.

Jon seems surprised when you reappear. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” You ask. The chair legs scrape across the floor until you manage to position it next to the cot. Before Jon can speak up again, you sit down and pull your legs up underneath you.

“Y/N.” He says, his voice oddly quiet and soft. 

You look over. He’s staring back at you and again that same pressure settles on your chest. 

There are a thousand, a million possible things that you want to say at this moment, questions burning on your tongue that threaten to escape, but you eventually settle on: “Go to sleep, Jon.” 

His eyes flick back and forth across your face, as though he’s committing your features to memory. It should be uncomfortable (it’s usually uncomfortable, when Jon stares at you for too long), but all you feel is overwhelming calm. 

You’re less surprised than you probably should be when Jon reaches out. 

His hand stops just short of yours, because of course it does, because of course he’s scared, because of course he can’t bring himself to hurt you somehow, because of course he can’t touch you.

A beat. A spider scurries near your foot but you don’t see it. You take his hand. 

The Archivist does not smile, but he does close his eyes. 

(Jon’s breathing eventually evens out and the movement behind his eyelids disappears. You drift off too, mostly on accident, the hard metal of the chair digging into your back. 

Jon does not tell you that this is the first time he’s slept in weeks. Jon does not tell you that he cannot remember the last time someone held his hand. Jon does not tell you. 

You know.)

**Author's Note:**

> cameo by my good friend francis st boyfriend bc he is gay. im sorry i did not finish this in 24 hours like you wanted. i like you idiot
> 
> kudos and comments are injected directly into my bloodstream and fuel my existence. 
> 
> find me (and more jon loveposting) on tumblr @ jonbinary!


End file.
